


Chiaroscuro

by Neila_Nuruodo



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Shadowbringers Ending, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2020-08-13 02:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20166940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neila_Nuruodo/pseuds/Neila_Nuruodo
Summary: **Shadowbringers Spoilers**Light and Darkness are mirror images, two sides of the same coin.  Inverted duplicates, feeding off each other, self-cannibalizing.What will it take to stop the cycle?  Strength born of weakness, life born of death.  Love born of hate.Alternate ending to Shadowbringers.  Self-insert style, non-gender-specific Warrior of Light.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This Warrior of Light has a voice; they'll be talking quite a bit in comparison to the game, where in order to be a proper blank canvas you don't hear their voice much. It's necessary for where the story is going, though. Otherwise I'm trying to keep the feel of a character that one can fill in for themselves.

You limp forward, pain stabbing out at every step, but you can’t stop or you’ll never stand back up again. At least, not as yourself. So you press on, just one step, just one more, and one more. But each one is harder, and the distance doesn’t seem to be getting any shorter. From miles ahead, Emet-Selch sneers.

“And _you!_ Why waste your final moments in futile defiance? Weary wanderer—you’ve no fight left to fight! No life left to live!”

You don’t heed his words—hells, you can barely hear them—just take one more step, and one more. Then agony blossoms, the light threatening around the edges of your vision exploding. You scream as it fountains out of control. You try to draw it back in, to hold it as you’ve done before, but it rages free despite your efforts.

Dimly, you hear him laugh. “You see? The Light will not be denied! Surrender to your fate, and let the transformation take you! Rise up in madness and fury! Devour the vermin infesting the land which is rightfully ours!”

You hear a sound, and glance up to see Thancred charge Emet-Selch.

“Now, Ryne! Now!”

You hear light footsteps run toward you from behind, but then Thancred is cast aside by a blast of power from Emet-Selch. He raises his hand, and your head turns in time to see a lance of dark energy pierce Ryne. She collapses to her knees, hand outstretched toward you.

“Fight it… You have to hold on!”

She collapses to the ground, and as hope dies, the light erupts again. You cough, retch, and collapse to the ground, and the world goes white.

But you aren’t alone in this endless expanse of light. Ardbert is there, standing beside you.

“If you had the strength to take another step, could you do it? Could you save our worlds?”

In this place, beyond pain, despair, and fear, you can manage a smile. “What, all by myself?”

He chuckles, then extends his axe to you. “Take it. We fight as one!”

You shake your head. “Wait. Ardbert… you’ve seen what he’s capable of. You see what terrible strength we’re up against here. We’ve been fighting so long… You’ve seen it too, right? How violence begets more violence. It goes on forever, until someone takes a stand and says no, I won’t hurt you even though you’ve hurt me. Even though you’ve hurt my friends.”

You turn your face up to his, giving him a pleading look. “Will you still support me? If I want to try for peace? Do you trust me?”

The axe drops a few ilms, and he gazes at you steadily. Then he nods, once, decisively. He heaves the axe back over his shoulder and claps you on the back.

“You’re right, I think. I hope. And if you’re wrong, I’ll still be here. Right behind you.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice thin with emotion. “Just… you know, stay close. In case I need to fight after all.”

He grins. “Of course. Now,” he bends down and helps you stand, “back at ‘em, hero.”

You smile at him and begin limping toward Emet-Selch once more. His eyes narrow on you.

“How is it that you haven’t succumbed yet? How are you still fighting? There’s no hope. No chance of escaping your fate.”

You give him a pained, sorrowful smile. “You know exactly how I’m managing it.”

This seems to surprise him; his eyes narrow further in study. “If I knew how you did it, I wouldn’t have to ask.”

“You know,” you tell him, still moving forward, step by painful step, “because you do it too. You struggle forward, despite the difficulty, despite the cost, because everyone is depending on you. Because no one else can do it.”

He draws back, face contorting with emotion: startlement, fury, despair. He settles on a sneer, but there is something wary in his eyes, perhaps because you’ve finally managed to get close to him. He doesn’t back away, though, and you find out why a moment later when you run into the invisible shield in front of him. Off guard, off balance, you splay against it for a moment, regaining your footing.

“Let me in,” you gasp, pressing your palms against the barely visible bubble before you.

He raises an eyebrow. “You must think me a special kind of fool.”

You shake your head, trying to articulate. “No. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He laughs at that, a short, sharp sound. “In that state I doubt you could hurt anyone other than yourself. Fine.”

You reel perilously as the barrier disappears under your hands, barely recovering your balance before you fall. He smirks, enjoying your clumsiness, but the wariness returns, just a hint, as you close the distance between you. You totter to a swaying stop before him and take a deep breath, fighting through the pain, trying to find the words.

When they won’t seem to come, you take one more step and wrap your arms around him, drawing him into a hug. He stiffens in your embrace and disappears, reappearing a few feet back. The sudden absence of support sends you crashing down to your hands and knees, and you grunt a curse at the impact.

“You really _do_ think me a fool. Come, now, show me the auracite.”

You shake your head and show him empty hands. “I said I wouldn’t hurt you.” You force a smile. “Did you forget already?” You try to stand back up, but your balance isn’t there, and you flail, trying to regain it.

“Then what was the purpose of that little display?”

“You mean the hug?” You frown up at him, confused. Do Ascians not hug? Maybe they don’t. “It’s what you do when someone you care about is hurting or distressed. To show affection and solidarity.”

The look he gives you makes it clear he’s familiar with the concept. He stalks toward you with deliberate steps.

“Why, hero, I had no idea you felt that way.” The mocking smile on his lips matches his tone.

You stop trying to rise, craning to look up at him. “I’m not stupid,” you say. “I felt _something_ from the moment we met. A connection, though I didn’t really understand it until you told me about your past.”

“And do you _really_ understand it now?”

“Maybe not,” you admit. “Hythlodaeus recognized me—my soul—and said something about the Convocation…” He shakes his head, unimpressed. “In time, with your help, I could come to fully understand.”

“Time is something you don’t have, hero.”

Your hands curl into useless trembling fists on the ground. “I know,” you whisper, tears blurring your vision.

He stops in front of you and you try to stand up again, but the effort of containing the light takes all your strength. After a moment of watching you struggle he sighs and bends down, gathering you into his arms and raising you up. You cling to him, letting your heavy head land on his shoulder.

“We’re the same, you know,” you tell him. “We both bear the hopes, the futures, of our people on our shoulders. Sometimes the burden is crushing. Too much to bear.”

You can’t see his expression, but his arms around you tighten. You pray that means you’re getting through to him.

“But we bear it anyway, because if we set it aside, if we falter or fall, there will be no one to take it up again. All hope, and by extension every fight, every sacrifice, every onze of effort, will have been for nothing. So we press on, driven by desperation, momentum, and hope… until here we are.

“If we fight, it doesn’t matter who wins and who loses—one entire people’s hopes will die.” Your eyes burn hot, and you bury them against his shoulder. “I can’t bear that. I can’t carry the loss of your people as well as the hopes of my own. And I can’t lose. Neither victory nor defeat is acceptable.” You draw back to look him in the face. He looks back, solemn, electrum eyes luminescent in the gloom. “I _have _to find a third path. Please, help me find a middle road.”

He continues to study you. “You have changed,” he says, and his lips quirk for a second. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible. You always had to forge your own path, to overcome every obstacle. Never willing to compromise, so sure that yours was the only way forward.”

He’s talking like he knows you, and you wonder with a spike of loneliness who you once were to him. Covering it with a smile, you confess, “This compromise thing is actually pretty new to me. I’ve always been good at defeating anyone who tries to bar my path. But… the thought of losing you, of shattering your people’s hopes… I can’t do it. That’s what’s driving me to find another way. I know you didn’t mean it when you suggested cooperation between us, but that doesn’t mean you were wrong. There _has_ to be another way.”

He lets out a dramatic sigh and fixes you with a look of annoyance. “Again I must repeat myself. I _have not_ lied to you. Oh, I may have exaggerated somewhat how likely I found the possibility, but I was entirely sincere.”

You realize that beneath his veneer of aggravation he’s actually hurt by your words. You raise a hand and touch the side of his face in wordless apology, and he sighs again, more softly. “And for a while I thought you really were going to do it. That you’d be able to hold the light without turning. But you aren’t strong enough, complete enough.” His eyes fall to the side, sadness and pain echoing in their depths.

“I’m close, though,” you tell him, and he looks at you again. “I’m so close, I can feel it.” You turn your head to find Ardbert, still at your side like he’d promised to be. He’s staring at Emet-Selch with a sort of bewildered pain and fascination, and you realize he feels the same connection, the same soul-deep draw, that you do. Which makes sense, since you are fragments of the same soul.

“I know,” he says softly, and crushes you closer. “I know. Maybe if you hadn’t come here and delayed my plans, after the Ardor—”

You cut him off. “The Eighth Umbral Calamity would have killed me.”

He draws back, surprise and distress on his face. “It…” He shakes his head. “But you would eventually be reborn. As you are now… with the state your soul is in…” He takes a deep breath. “You should never have come here, hero.”

You laugh. “In case you forgot, it wasn’t exactly by choice.”

“And of course, once you saw the plight of the people here, you couldn’t just leave well enough alone, could you?” He shakes his head. “Maybe there was another way. But it’s too late. You’re too close to the transformation now. There’s no time left to find it.”

“I’ve managed this far,” you point out. Smiling, you add, “And I’ve still got a trick or two up my sleeve. If you could heal Ryne, she can help me hold it longer. Maybe even long enough.”

He raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You always were an optimist, weren’t you?” You gaze back at him, dredging up the remains of your hope, your confidence, and he rolls his eyes. “Fine, we’ll see what the girl can do.” He snaps his fingers, and Ryne’s form appears on the ground beside you. He stretches a hand toward her, then she gasps, eyes snapping open, and begins to sit up.

“What… what is…”

Ignoring her question, Emet-Selch says, “See what you can do for our dear hero, would you?”

Ryne’s eyes go wide in disbelief, but she doesn’t have to be told twice. Gaining her feet, she extends her hands toward you. Little by little, the pressure straining at you recedes, fractionally, but even this smallest ease gives you deep relief.

“You know this is just a temporary measure,” Ryne says, voice soft. “Each time I do this it’s less effective than the last. The next time I’ll have to do it sooner, and the time after that, sooner yet. Eventually nothing short of constant containment will hold it in…” She steps back, eyes finding yours. Her face is solemn, mature beyond her years. “And not long after that, nothing will be able to hold it back.”

Your breath catches in dismay as the fledgling hope that she could keep it under control for long enough to find a solution falters and dies. Though the light no longer rages, you still feel heavy, disheartened, weighed down with despair. You turn to face Emet-Selch. He is watching you with a steady, solemn gaze, and you realize he knew, or at least suspected, this would be the case.

You take a few deep breaths, trying to dispel the hard knot in your chest. “I had hoped for more time with you… before the end.”

Your confession seems to pain him, and he crushes you close. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, burying his face in your hair. “I… I wish we could have had more. It’s killed me to use you as a pawn, you know.”

You laugh, wanting to ask why the hells he did it, but you already know. Deciding that forgiveness is the least you can give him, you tighten your arms around him.

“I understand. You told me you were tempered. Your will isn’t fully your own. I’m just glad… if you could have chosen, you might have chosen me.”

He draws in a sharp breath and pulls back to look at you. “We need to speak, now, before you are lost, and,” he glances at Ryne, who is watching the two of you with disbelieving fascination, “privately. Somewhere we won’t be disturbed.” He frowns, then nods. “Surrender yourself to my power. Quickly, now.”

You hesitate, thrown by his sudden change of demeanor and a tiny bit worried by his demand. He sees your reticence and laughs.

“You’ve already fallen in love with your enemy. Could this really be any more foolish than that?”

You flush, realizing he has you dead to rights, and turn to Ryne. “Make sure the others know I left of my own will. And when you see him again, don’t let them attack him. Even if I return as a Lightwarden.” You reach one hand toward her. “There has to be a way other than genocide.”

Ryne looks nervous and suddenly young again, but she nods. “I’ll do my best.”

Not waiting for you to say you’re ready, Emet-Selch has already opened a void. As it draws you in, you remember Ardbert and reach out in blind panic—and then relax as you feel a ghostly touch on your hand. Then nothingness swallows you whole.


	2. Chapter 2

As reality takes you into its arms again you snatch a deep breath, grateful for Emet-Selch’s hold stabilizing you. You look around to see a barren, rocky plain lit by pale, stark light. Even as you’re wondering if he took you somewhere deep in the Empty, you glance up and see the star above you. The sight is like a fist to the solar plexus; you disengage from Emet-Selch’s grip to turn and stare.

“Don’t go far,” he warns, and you register his words dimly. “There’s no air here other than what I brought.” A faint bubble shimmers into sight over the two of you, thin enough it doesn’t obstruct your view of the star.

The majority of the planet gleams a glaring white, even starker than the moon under your feet. On the light side it is nearly too bright to look at, and the dark side isn’t truly dark, reflecting back every bit of light that touches it from the moon and distant stars. The circle of unflooded land stands out from this purity like a drop of ink. The size of it, the effect, is disturbingly like looking at an unsocketed eyeball.

It is only with effort that you manage to tear your eyes from the view above you. Emet-Selch is staring up at the star as well, a wistful expression on his face. He doesn’t seem to notice your attention, so you take a moment to study him. The harsh light casts his face in cruel planes, the edges between darkness and light blade-sharp. He wanted to talk, but he seems content to enjoy the view for now. Well, you don’t have that long; you decide to ask the question that’s begun niggling at your mind.

“If…” you begin haltingly, and his eyes drop to you, “if you’re tempered by Zodiark, and Zodiark and Hydaelyn are just insanely powerful primals, does that mean I was tempered by Hydaelyn?”

His eyebrows rise. “Just what did you think the Echo was?”

Your face warms. “I—well, it doesn’t seem like anyone fully understands it, in my defense. I rather took it for granted.” Dismay crowds out your embarrassment.

“What we call the Echo—and, in case you’ve forgotten, we Ascians have it too—is nothing more or less than the tempering of one of the two greatest primals. It can bestow much more than immunity from tempering by another primal, though even if your end weren’t at hand, you wouldn’t live long enough to master it. That, plus your aversion to listening to we who know the truth, is why you know so little about it.”

Your face goes hot again, this time from anger. It wasn’t only Emet-Selch—well, Zodiark, really—who made a path of peace impossible. Hydaelyn has a vested interest in seeing all of Zodiark’s servants destroyed, and you’ve been Her unwitting pawn, killing Ascians here and there at Her behest, heeding Her whispers in your ear not to listen to what they say, that they lie, that they must be destroyed no matter whose lives are sacrificed in the doing.

“Does that make you angry?” Emet-Selch is looking at you with interest.

“Yes,” you say shortly. “I don’t like being manipulated. That I never even realized until now makes it that much worse.”

“Strange,” he murmurs. “Has She turned from you already, damaged as you are? You shouldn’t be able to be upset at Her.”

His casual reminder of your impending mortality drains off your fury, and you droop. He sees the change in your demeanor and comes to you, draping an arm over your shoulders.

“But now is not the time for such wondering. You want to find a middle path. Well, believe it or not, we have tried. Unfortunately, warning people that there will soon be a Calamity spurs them to try to prevent it rather than preparing so they might survive it.”

“Is there no way to rejoin a shard without causing a calamity, then?”

You feel him shrug. “Perhaps. When we first set out to rejoin the shards, and especially after our failure with the Thirteenth, we considered many possible approaches. Tricky as it may be to arrange for a single element to dominate a shard, at least that process hastens its own end once enough imbalance accrues. The only other method we believe might have any chance of success would involve aligning the reflection’s aetherial distribution precisely with the Source’s—or, I suppose, another shard’s—causing them to resonate and merge. Of course, this would be hideously more difficult than simply aligning a reflection and priming the Source to draw it in. Even to an eternal, the time this would take boggles a bit, and with the lack of cooperation from the inhabitants of the shards, well, we aren’t that patient, and neither is Zodiark.” He gives you a smile. “He waits because He must, not because He is happy to.”

Disheartened, you cast about for a compromise, another path, any way to survive. You see Ardbert, still at your side, and wonder if you should accept his earlier offer. The two of you probably wouldn’t be strong enough to defeat Emet-Selch, but who knows what would happen if you died rather than becoming a Lightwarden. And dying here, with no one around to absorb the light—unless Emet-Selch could, and something tells you that wouldn’t go well for him—might still save the First. But you can’t bring yourself to hurt him, not now, not like this.

“What now, then?” you ask him, your voice hoarser than usual from pain. “What do I do with the time I have left?”

“Try to enjoy it?” he suggests, and you give him a look. He sighs, turning you back to face him and drawing you close. “Whatever you may think, once this world rejoins the Source, these souls will be beyond suffering, beyond pain. They will be reunited with the lost pieces of their souls, one step closer to complete.”

Truthful or not, you can’t stand to hear him speak of this world like that, especially knowing what it will mean for the Source. You raise your face, cup the back of his head, and kiss him silent. The gesture takes him by surprise, pale gold eyes snapping wide open. You lave your lips gently over his, trying to entice him to respond, but other than his initial start he makes no further movement. Disappointed and a bit embarrassed, you pull back, and he watches you with amusement.

“Sorry to disappoint, hero, but I’m not interested in romance at the moment.”

Flushing, you look for a reply, something snide to cover your hurt. “You must be capable of it. Varis and Zenos are evidence of that much.”

He chuckles, raising a hand to cup your cheek. “What I want from you is… something you aren’t complete enough to give me.”

The merciless honesty in his eyes stings you, and you turn away with a sigh. “Not good enough to hold the Light,” you grumble, “not good enough to love you…”

He wanders in front of you, standing in profile, eyes on the horizon. “I said _complete._ I’m just not interested in a relationship with a pale reflection of… what perfection could be.”

“I see,” you say softly. “A bit like having relations with a child.”

His head turns to you. “No. It’s not a matter of maturity. You’re certainly mature enough. Just… not whole.”

“So, more like an amputee?”

He turns fully toward you, head tilted in thought. “That’s a much better analogy. It’s not really your fault that you’re missing something. But you are.”

“I think I understand. It makes me an object of pity, rather than desire.” His pained expression confirms your words, and you walk slowly past him, close to the edge of the bubble, and sit on the ground. You look up once again at the planet. From this distance, the light seems to be slowly eating away at the remaining untouched land. Maybe, due to your current condition, it is. Or maybe you’re just seeing what’s happening in your soul, projecting it onto the star itself.

You hear Emet-Selch pacing behind you, but your eyes are captured by the sight before you. So many of your friends are down there, under the sea in Amaurot, in the Crystarium, Eulmore… all counting on you to banish the Light and save them. What a joke. You can’t even save yourself.

Emet-Selch steps in front of you and surprises you by kneeling on the ground before you.

“It’s not just pity,” he says, and sighs. “I’ve hoped… so deeply I couldn’t even admit it to myself until now, that you might become complete again. Or at least more so. I want… more. But… if your soul is going to be shattered by the Light, or trapped as a Lightwarden…” He closes his eyes, pain on his face, and draws in a deep breath. “I don’t know if you’ll be freed to be reborn when this shard rejoins the Source. I hope so. But I don’t know. I… there is no path forward for me that isn’t strewn with regrets. I have to choose which ones I can live with. And I would rather regret having and then losing you than regret never seizing this opportunity. Especially if it should prove to be the last.”

His eyes pierce you, entreating, and he kneels in such stillness you think he could remain there for a century, unmoving.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Ardbert says, coming around in front of you. “About your soul. Do you think… if you had my strength added to yours, we could survive to be reborn, at least?”

Your eyes twitch to his. “Maybe,” you whisper. Pain draws lines in Emet-Selch’s face, and you realize he thinks you were talking to him. But you don’t know how to explain, and this is more important right now; you refocus on Ardbert. He is smiling. “I did say I’d cast my lot with yours. I meant it, too. For better or for worse…” He reaches out and sets his hand on your shoulder. As before, when he touches you a bright light radiates from the point of contact.

Emet-Selch draws in a sharp breath. “Who are you? How did you…” He trails off, staring at Ardbert. “Oh. Oh, I see.” He leans forward, studying the shade. “Well, well, you found the piece of your soul from this shard.”

“He found me, actually,” you interject. “And he’s who I was telling ‘maybe.’ He was,” you drop your gaze, “wondering if adding the strength of his soul to mine would preserve us enough to be reborn.”

“Very likely,” Emet-Selch says thoughtfully. “But there’s no need to rush into that.” He turns to address Ardbert. “You would, of course, be welcome to join us…?”

Ardbert, looking dumbfounded, works his mouth for a moment. “I’m not sure how that would work?” he finally manages.

“Very simply,” Emet-Selch assures him. “Just maintain contact with the rest of your soul so I can touch you.” He smiles, and the expression is pure sin. “Or do you think I can’t handle both of you at once?”

The smile isn’t even directed at you, and still your face heats, your heart beating faster. You glance at Ardbert, and you know you wear the same expression as him—longing, curiosity, a little hesitation, a lot of desire. You smile, and he does too, the two of you turning back to Emet-Selch as one and nodding.

His eyelids drop halfway in response, the electrum deepening to pure gold. Still smiling that wicked smile, he leans forward and lays you out on the rocky ground. You clasp Ardbert’s hand tightly as you both go down. Emet-Selch looms over you, reaching a hand down to touch your face tenderly as he bends and brushes your lips with his. The feather-light contact sets them to tingling, and you gasp softly. Ardbert makes a soft sound beside you, but you barely notice as Emet-Selch runs the tip of his nose down the side of yours, then seals his lips firmly on your own. You groan, reaching up to put your fingers in his hair, feeling the coarse strands part under your touch. He smiles against your lips, drawing back way too soon for your liking. You tighten your hand against the back of his skull, but he’s stronger than he looks; he pulls away despite your grasp, giving you a secretive smile.

“Emet-Selch,” you gasp, complaining. His expression goes tender for a moment.

“I had wondered if I might reveal my true name to you this day, though this wasn’t exactly how I had envisioned it happening.” He presses his lips to your forehead, the gesture reverent. “Call me Hades.”

“Hades,” you repeat, savoring the gift, and his eyes darken. You smile; it seems he likes that. “Kiss me again, Hades.”

He chuckles and obliges, sliding one hand slowly up the side of your neck as he deepens the kiss, letting it come to rest at the base of your skull, his fingertips weaving into the roots of your hair, his thumb extended along your jaw to angle your chin just how he wants. His other hand braces on the ground beside you, and you groan as he lowers his weight fully onto you.

Hungry, you part your lips beneath his, and he accepts your invitation, humming appreciation as his tongue delves into your mouth. You shift under him, finding the perfect fit between his body and yours and groaning at the way his hips push into your own. You drown in him as his other hand works its way under the small of your back and pulls you harder against him, as he devours your mouth. When he releases your lips, you’re left gasping for air.

But air isn’t what you want, and you reach up to pull him closer. Smirking, he catches you by the wrist, pinning the hand over your head and tutting softly.

“You ephemerals, always in such a rush.”

You laugh, eyes stinging with tears. “I don’t have all day, Hades.”

His humor dims at the reminder. “Ah, yes. A shame, really. Had we the time, I could make you writhe for hours.”

The air in your lungs solidifies for a second as your mind envisions him tormenting you for hours with this same aching pleasure. A glance at his face assures you that he isn’t exaggerating, and you feel yourself blush. Still smiling, he heaves a long-suffering sigh.

“Very well, I’ll take your condition into consideration and speed things up a bit.” His grin turns sly. “You know, few mortals have the opportunity to experience a Paragon’s power like this. We spend so much time hiding, we don’t get to show off very often.” He raises his hand, snaps his fingers, and suddenly you’re both naked and there’s a bedroll under you. Your breath catches at the sensation of his skin all along yours; by his indrawn breath, he’s enjoying it, too.

Electric eyes burning into yours, he watches your face as he cups your cheek in one hand and puts his other hand at the bottom of your ribs. Slowly he slides it up, up, caressing your contours, then you gasp as his fingernails scrape lightly over your nipple. He grins at your reaction and does it again, then you give an undignified yelp as _another_ hand slips between your thighs. He laughs, obviously enjoying your surprise as you peer down to see, sure enough, it’s his hand. Specifically, the hand that’s still cupping your cheek. You blink up at him, confused, and he kisses you, hard and quick.

“Don’t think too hard about it,” he murmurs. “Just enjoy it.”

So _that’s_ what he meant by experiencing his power? This reality-bending thing he’s doing makes his finger-snapping look like a parlor trick. Feeling a bit dizzy, you take his advice and relax, not jumping nearly so badly when a fourth hand joins the third, moving slowly up your thighs toward your sex. You groan, head falling back as he overwhelms you with a glut of touch, and he kisses your throat right where it meets your collarbone.

Your desire rages like a fire in your belly, and when he parts your thighs you can’t hold in a soft, hungry sound. Your hips buck as he strokes you languidly, hands caressing your body all the while. He stokes the heat in your groin, murmuring tenderly, teasingly all the while, and when he removes his hands you can’t hold in a whimper of complaint. The way he grins down at you, though, it’s obvious he’s got something planned.

He bends down slowly to kiss you, and as his lips touch yours your body surges and you cry out because, oh gods, his mouth is in more than one place too. You groan as he licks at your mouth and sex both, the simultaneous assault short-circuiting your mind, and when he closes his lips to suck at you, the pleasure sharpens to a knife’s edge. Screaming into his mouth, you tip over the edge, your release sending your body into convulsions and your mind to blissful oblivion.

Slowly you return to yourself; he’s still stroking and kissing you, languorous. You hear Ardbert cry out beside you and blush; you’d completely forgotten he was here. He has a death grip on your hand, but slowly it relaxes, and Emet-Selch—Hades, you remind yourself—raises himself off you. You immediately miss his weight, but he turns your face up toward him.

“Flip over,” he orders, eyes burning, and your heart gives a lurch at the desire in his expression. You and Ardbert have to switch hands, but you figure it out quickly, and then Hades is back on top of you. Again his hands are everywhere, drawing out desire, suspending it long enough to make you sob or groan or beg, then fulfilling you, bringing you higher and higher.

You gasp as his teeth scrape lightly over the side of your neck, then again as he guides himself to press against your entrance. When he lingers there, going no further, you can’t take any more.

“Hades,” you groan, “please…”

He inhales sharply, almost a gasp, and buries his face in the crook of your neck. “Since you asked so prettily,” he rumbles, and then he’s inside you, scorching you with slow strokes, in and out and in deeper again. The intrusion is exquisite, unbearably delicious, and your pleasure rises again.

Without warning, pain spears out, mingling with the agonized pleasure, and your vision begins to dim to white. You curse, trying to force the light back.

“No,” you groan, “not now, not yet…”

“Mmm?” murmurs Hades, lips ghosting over the rim of your ear. “Too fast?”

You shake your head. “The Light,” you gasp. “It’s trying to escape.”

“Faster, then,” he says, suiting actions to words.

“Sorry,” you sob, feeling tears prick your eyes as you twist, strung out between pleasure and pain.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He turns your head and kisses you, redoubling his touches all over your body. The pleasure makes the pain more bearable, but it also weakens your self-control, and the Light finds a way out, bursting free.

He hisses softly and thrusts hard, going full force and driving you closer to the edge. You twist your head, wanting one last look at him before you lose yourself, and your eyes go wide at the grit of pain on his face.

“It’s hurting you! You have to…” you pant, “to let me go. Just… let it happen.”

But he shakes his head, smiling, kissing you again. “You’re more than worth a little pain. I can withstand it for this… this last gift, this last, almost perfect memory.”

The tears threaten again, and you don’t fight them, clinging to him as the world fades further and further to white. You feel him pull you onto your side, then another body wraps around you, holding you from the front. To your surprise, this slows the Light’s advance, and the pleasure surges back to dominance. You tremble, gasping, on the edge of another release, and you feel more than see darkness cocoon you, wrapping you in a warm embrace, a funeral shroud.

Hades shudders against you, burying his face in your shoulder and gasping something you can’t make out, and then you’re coming again, lost in the pleasure and pain. As the world goes blank, you feel a chime, like something resonating all the way down to your soul. You savor it, clinging to its bittersweet perfection, as you wait for the end. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see what you’re becoming, and just lie in Hades’s arms. After maybe a minute he stirs.

“You don’t look any different.”

You open your eyes, and his own go wide with shock.

“Well, that would explain it! You haven’t turned at all.” He scrutinizes you. ‘You’re not full to bursting with Light. And…” Suddenly he is embracing you, squeezing you just a little too tightly.

“What?” you gasp. He kisses you breathless by way of reply, then stands up, hauling you to your feet. You look around, frowning, as you stand. “Where’s Ardbert?”

“He’s you. Look inside. You’re reunited again. And,” he grips your shoulders, “his return repaired your soul. You have a second chance, hero.”

You turn your mind’s eye inward, seeking, and for a moment you think you can feel him, smiling, holding his fist out for you to bump.

“I don’t really feel any different,” you confess. “Aside from the light not bursting out any more. Am I strong enough to contain it now?”

He purses his lips, as though choosing and discarding his words carefully. “You are dim, Bringer of Light. More dim than I’ve ever seen any of your ilk. Your aether is almost balanced. It’s still all there, but with your stronger soul and no huge imbalance, it isn’t a danger to you.”

“But how?” you blurt, confused. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” he says softly, “it doesn’t.” He looks down at himself, and his eyes go wide. “Unless something, like a large amount of darkness, met and negated it.”

“What?” you demand, worried what he might mean. He smiles, joyful.

“Your Light was going to take you from me too soon, so I wrapped you in my Darkness. It was supposed to protect me and slow your deterioration. Generally, when Light and Darkness meet like that, they annihilate each other. But that didn’t happen this time. Maybe because we were joined?” He frowns, forehead creasing in thought, and you fight a sudden urge to kiss his brow. “More study will be needed,” he says, and the glint in his eye promises you’ll both enjoy this _study._ “But I am nearly as bright as you are dim.” He takes a deep breath, shoulders squaring. “And, if I’m not mistaken, I’m not under Zodiark’s influence. At least, not enough to greatly affect my free will. The tempering… it’s not gone, not fully. We still have our respective Echoes. But His influence—and, I suspect you’ll find the same of Hers—has waned to almost nothing.”

For a minute you cling to him, breathing in the hope, the sheer _possibility_ of having your will be your own again. You see a similar dumbstruck awe on Hades’s face and feel your gut drop. He must be experiencing free will now, the same as you, but after millennia of subversion to your handful of years.

“It’s over,” you whisper, cupping his face in your hands. “You’re free now.”

His eyes refocus on you. “Not quite,” he says, expression serious. “They still have a foothold in our souls. If we truly want to be free, we’ll have to do something about that before they reassert their influence over us.” He nods firmly and snaps his fingers, and suddenly you’re both dressed again. “Well, I’m sure your friends will be most interested to learn of these developments. Shall we?”

“What?” He’s thrown you again with the sudden change of topic.

He smirks at you. “Ordinarily I’d be happy to sequester myself with you for a century or two, getting properly acquainted, but even with your stronger soul you don’t have that long. If we are to mend this star, we must act quickly, devise a plan, and execute it forthwith.” He extends his hand, and you take it, hesitant but trusting he knows what he’s talking about.

“Okay,” you say, and a void opens and swallows you both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hindu deities are depicted with many arms (and sometimes heads) as a way to signify their superhuman might and ability. I adopted this concept as a way to showcase the power of the Paragons.


	3. Chapter 3

You reappear in the darkness, still looking down at the star, but now from much closer and longer ago. Raised voices immediately demand your attention, the voices of the companions who accompanied you here. They turn one by one at the sound of your arrival. To your surprise, the Crystal Exarch—G’raha—is among them. Thancred’s face grows hard, intent, and he raises his arm, the auracite held in his hand to throw. Your eyes go wide, and you lurch in front of Hades protectively; at the same moment Ryne grabs his arm by the elbow, stopping him from throwing. For a breathless second everyone is still, then Y’shtola takes a step forward, readying her weapon.

“Who are you?” Her voice is hard, confrontational.

“It’s the Warrior of Light. And _Emet-Selch.”_ Thancred lets his arm relax, lets Ryne take the auracite as he looks at Y’shtola. “Why, what do you see?”

Still staring, she lets the rod fall slowly. “I… don’t rightly understand what I’m seeing. It reminds me of the shades in Amaurot. So much power, but I couldn’t for the life of me tell you which one is which.” She takes a deep breath and puts her weapon away. “I can say one thing with certainty, though—neither of them is a Lightwarden.” She looks back and forth between the two of you, and you step forward, raising a hand in greeting. Ryne is also staring, a puzzled frown on her face.

Hades steps up and sweeps an arm over you. “Good as new—well, mostly.”

Hesitantly at first, then faster, the Scions close the distance, crowding around you, exclaiming, touching, hugging, asking questions on top of questions.

“I’m fine,” you reassure them. “Better than fine, believe it or not.”

“But how? What did he do?”

You feel your face warm up. “We’re not entirely sure what happened,” you deflect, “but he thinks we de-aspected each other somehow, bringing us both into balance.” You turn to look at him. He stands at a distance, expression remote, and you’re put in mind of the scene in Rak’tika, after he brought Y’shtola back from the Lifestream. You disengage from your friends and go to him.

“Ha—” you begin, and his gloved finger is on your lips faster than a blink.

“Ah-ah-ah,” he says, “not in public, please.”

“Emet-Selch,” you amend, “I’m sorry. I was too distracted at the time to thank you for saving me. Thank you… for everything.”

He raises an eyebrow. “More flattery?” he teases, smiling. “You are most welcome, hero.”

“I believe I speak for all my companions,” Urianger says, coming up behind you, “when I say we are most grateful to thee for the safe return of our dear friend.” Emet-Selch gives an abbreviated bow as the rest of the group falls in behind you. Alisae looks between you and Emet-Selch, eyes narrowed.

“What exactly happened while you were gone?”

Her too-piercing blue eyes are fixed on you, and you feel heat creeping back up your cheeks. Deciding to steer the conversation toward less personal waters, you turn toward Emet-Selch.

“You could probably explain it better.”

He nods, pose turning thoughtful. “As best as I can guess, her Light and my Darkness canceled one another out. I suppose it will come as no surprise to you that the Light is painful to servants of Zodiark. When the wardens’ light touched me, I created a layer of darkness to protect me. It seems this was when the cancellation occurred. Whatever the case, it only worked because the wardens’ light was so abundant; ordinarily our hero wouldn’t have had nearly enough to affect me significantly. While Zodiark has no real hold on me for now, I don’t know how long that will remain the case. So,” he claps his hands and grins, “let’s get to planning, shall we?”

You nod your agreement, but Thancred frowns, crossing his arms.

“To be blunt, I don’t know if we can work with you, especially after your earlier betrayal.”

“That wasn’t his fault,” you argue. “He was tempered by Zodiark. He didn’t have a choice.”

Y’shtola nods solemnly and Urianger’s face drops in thought, but the rest react with varying levels of shock and disbelief. Alphinaud breaks the silence.

“Not to put too fine a point on it, but I don’t see how it will benefit us to work with you if you are tempered. You say Zodiark has little influence on you now, but you cannot be sure when that will change. It could do a great deal of harm if we make plans with you only for you to return to your god’s service without warning, bearing full knowledge of our intentions and designs.”

“In theory, we should be able to replicate the steps which balanced our aether.”

“And in practice?”

Maybe it’s because he’s right, or because he’s speaking the fear that hides in your heart, but you find yourself frustrated with Alphinaud.

“If you’re that worried about it, then we tempered people will go make our own plans.”

Y’shtola’s eyes narrow on Emet-Selch. “Is that how you did it? You tempered the Warrior of Light to Zodiark?”

Emet-Selch bursts into laughter, shaking his head. “No, I did not.” He looks at you, still smirking. “Would you like to explain, or shall I?”

Seeing the naked suspicion and anger on the Scions’ faces, you decide it’ll come across better from you. “I’ll do it,” you say, thinking where to start. “So, what do you remember about the Echo?”

“It allows you to experience visions of a person’s past,” Y’shtola offers.

“As well as understanding what others say directly, no matter their language,” adds Alphinaud.

“And of course, it makes you immune to being tempered,” Alisae says, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“That’s right,” you say with a nod. “Where does it come from?”

“From Hydaelyn,” Ryne says softly.

“Is that so?” you ask. “Remember, the Ascians also have the Echo. Do you think She gives it to them, too?”

There is a lull in the conversation as they digest this, then Urianger speaks.

“Does thou truly mean to say that the Echo is naught more than the tempering of a primal of inconceivable power?” His face twists, as though the revelation pains him, and you nod slowly.

Emet-Selch speaks into the ensuing silence. “I’m sure you’re all aware that, once someone is tempered, nothing short of death can break it. So no, I did not temper your precious hero. I could not have even if I’d tried.” He rests his chin on one hand. “Though the knowledge that tempering can be reduced is a considerable revelation. Ordinarily, people tempered to different primals do not have enough in common with one another to grow close…”

He pulls himself out of his musings. “At any rate, the exact strength and nature of the gifts granted by the Echo vary somewhat from soul to soul, but the main reason we Ascians can do so much more with the Echo than you can is a matter of having more time to learn how to use it and, in some cases, having stronger souls.”

Y’shtola shakes her head, then turns narrowed eyes on Emet-Selch. “If that’s true, Hydaelyn’s tempering should have prevented the Warrior of Light from trying to make peace with you.”

Emet-Selch smiles. “You are absolutely correct. I suspect it has to do with the damage to our hero’s soul. It may be that this weakened Hydaelyn’s hold just enough. But I don’t truly know; this is just speculation.” He shrugs. “And now, we are almost equally _grey,_ for lack of a better term, setting us free to choose our own paths.”

There is a long silence as your friends digest this.

“Well, perhaps we might begin by determining if we have any common goals, then.” Alphinaud glances around the group, his eyes settling finally on Emet-Selch.

He smiles in response and raises his hands, palms up. “Is not your mission as an organization to end the primal threat?”

“It is,” Thancred replies, eyes narrowed, arms crossed. “And it is you Ascians who keep teaching and inciting people to summon them. How does this constitute common ground, exactly?”

“We do this, yes—at the behest of our god. Our primal. Whose influence, I remind you, I have shaken off. My will has been subverted for millennia. I want to see the primals eradicated, too. _All_ of them.”

“Even Zodiark?” Y’shtola asks, crossing her arms, and Emet-Selch nods.

“When the world was whole, Dark and Light were not divided as they are now. Even if all the shards are rejoined to the Source, I suspect the star will not be mended until both Hydaelyn and Zodiark are banished… or rather, reunited somehow. That does present a problem, though, since they are extremely powerful entities. Opposed to that, there are only two unsevered left, now, myself and Elidibus, as well as a host of lesser Ascians. While I could probably count on his help to take on Hydaelyn, we Paragons wouldn’t have a chance on our own. And no,” he adds before you can speak, “you lot wouldn’t make an appreciable difference as you are now.”

Alisae speaks up. “Is there a way to have the two of them fight, let them weaken each other to make them easier targets?”

“A good idea,” Emet-Selch muses. “For that to work, the Rejoining must be finished and Zodiark released. But should we accomplish that, it is a certainty that they would return to fighting. We would need many more complete souls to have a chance at defeating them even after weakening one another, though, so it needs to be done. Not to mention restoring those who sacrificed themselves to save the star.”

“I fear that such a thing cannot be permitted to occur. The next Calamaity to strike the Source—the one caused by this shard’s rejoining—sendeth the star into a downward spiral of chaos and death as Black Rose rageth out of control. We can neither condone such a course nor permit thee to pursue it.”

Emet-Selch turns to Urianger, scowling. “And how exactly do you know all this?”

“Because I told him. Because I saw it.” The Crystal Exarch, silent until now, steps forward, leaning heavily on his staff. Emet-Selch transfers his scowl to him.

“How did you even—never mind. What do you mean by ‘you saw it?’”

G’raha takes a deep breath and sighs. “After Black Rose devastated the Source and reduced mankind to desperate tribalism, a few of us—mostly friends and comrades of the Warrior of Light—managed to assemble ancient technologies from Allag, from Omega, and other sources, allowing me to send the Crystal Tower—bound to me, and I to it—through time and space. Here, to the First, with time enough to prevent the Rejoining.”

Emet-Selch’s frown turns thoughtful, and he crosses his arms, silent for a minute. “So that’s how it happened,” he finally says. “I should like to see how you managed such a feat.”

“I don’t think so,” the Crystal Exarch says, and Emet-Selch rolls his eyes.

“And you intend to stop me how? But I think I can divine even without seeing it that it was a mad act of desperation. Perhaps…”

You can’t help but feel that he’s a bit too unconcerned with the loss of life. “A world reduced to barbarism isn’t going to be conducive to creating your next Calamity. The Empire was hit nearly as hard as Eorzea, from what I heard, shattered and toppled. There has to be another way.” You frown. “What about matching the shard’s aether with the Source’s?”

“Like I said, that will take too long. All the more so, considering that you are my key to sanity; once you die, I will probably begin to fall back under Zodiark’s control. Our plan must be completed within your lifetime—though, if we can strengthen your soul, that will expand your lifetime, so long as you refrain from dying foolishly.”

“What, exactly, would take so long? What do you mean by ‘matching the shard’s aether?’”

Emet-Selch sighs, turning heavily toward Y’shtola. “Something the Warrior of Light and I were discussing earlier. We—the Paragons—at one point considered manipulating the shards’ aetherial makeup to precisely reflect the Source’s. In theory, this would set up a resonation between them, causing them to merge. It would probably be less violent than our tested method of Rejoining, but it would also take longer. As in, I doubt we could complete even one shard in our hero’s lifetime.”

G’raha tilts his head, studying the Ascian. “It may be that I could bring us to other shards and facilitate whatever we decide to do with them. However, I would need to be convinced of the necessity of the Rejoining… and considering how much I’ve dedicated to _preventing_ it, that will take some doing.” He spears Emet-Selch with a pointed look. “If you truly are free of Zodiark’s influence, then why are you still so keen on the Rejoining?”

“Numerous reasons. First, your young friend’s suggestion about weakening Hydaelyn and Zodiark has merit, and this will require His return. What’s more, I am increasingly coming to believe that Zodiark and Hydaelyn must be reunited into one being or properly dispersed—indeed, such a reunion of the star’s energies may undo all tempering, since it seems it is somehow caused by imbalance being imprinted on the soul by the primal. If my theory is correct, reuniting Dark and Light should make such an imbalance self-correcting rather than self-perpetuating.

“And finally, my participation in your plans is contingent upon their containing a genuine effort to restore those who sacrificed themselves for the salvation of this star. I know of no way to do this without restoring Zodiark.”

“Look,” Thancred growls, “we understand that this loss grieves you. But they are gone, by their own will no less, and we must needs move forward rather than looking back longingly at the past.”

“Have you never wondered,” Emet-Selch snarls, “why people are so selfish? So cruel and inconsiderate? The souls that currently populate the Lifestream are only a fraction of those which should. Before our civilization approached calamity, such attitudes were rare, and when they surfaced, those souls would be afforded care and teaching to help bring them in line with the rest of society.” He sighs, dragging his hand down his face. “The death toll of the Final Days was staggering, but most especially because death was nearly unheard of before its advent. Losing thirty percent of our population was unthinkable. We couldn’t wait until extinction loomed near to take action, especially since nothing we tried could halt the march of oblivion. Of the nearly two-thirds of our people whose lives weren’t claimed during the Final Days, three-quarters of them exist only in and as Zodiark now. Some of those souls that remain were children and therefore not eligible for sacrifice. Likewise, Convocation members like myself, and other leaders and thinkers, were considered too important, but by and large the most generous, selfless, protective souls are _gone._”

You blink, a void opening in your gut as you process his words. For a moment silence reigns over your small group.

“If we are going to discuss this in earnest, perhaps we should do so in more agreeable environs. Say, the Crystarium?”

Nods are exchanged and you lead the way, gut still churning from Emet-Selch’s revelation.


	4. Chapter 4

After two straight hours of arguing in circles, you’re done. Mentally, at least. You stand off to one side in the Ocular, going through your gear piece by piece, examining it for wear and damage, making any necessary repairs, then moving on to the next piece. The voices of your friends wash over you, and you withhold your sigh. You _need_ them to find a way to get along. Emet-Selch holds the key to your continued freedom, and you won’t—can’t—set that aside, but this will be a much longer and more painful road without the Scions beside you. But you’ve already said everything you could. You can’t be too surprised that they consider you _compromised_ by the Ascian, but it still bothers you a bit.

“Well, hero? What do you think?”

Blinking, you tune in to see everyone staring at you. “Um, about what? Sorry,” you add, flushing.

Emet-Selch’s smirk tells you he knew full well you weren’t listening. “Your friends remain convinced that we must try out the theory of accomplishing the Rejoining by means other than a calamity. So, assuming you’re willing, we’ll head out to the Empty tomorrow for a little demonstration of how we Ascians go about altering elemental balances.” His smirk fades, replaced by annoyance. “Hopefully that will put an end to this nonsense.”

“That sounds great,” you venture. “But I’m no scholar of aetherology, so I don’t know why you need me.”

Emet-Selch throws a look of pure aggravation at the Scions, who return it with steady distrust and animosity. Unable to stifle a laugh, you shake your head.

“Okay, okay, I’ll be glad to come along.” Muttering, you add, “Someone has to keep the peace, I suppose.” Emet-Selch comes to you as the group begins to disperse, and you fight the urge to hug him, take his hand, touch him in some way.

“Ryne,” he says, startling you. “A moment?”

The young woman stops in surprise, then comes over. Thancred stops, too, suspicion twisting his expression. He moves to stand behind her, crossing his arms, his mere presence a threat directed at the Ascian.

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes at Thancred before returning his gaze to Ryne. “You were able to seal away the Light before, were you not? To bring it under some semblance of control?” She nods. “Do you think you might be able to repeat the process in reverse? To amplify and grow the Light, rather than quell it?”

“Hmm,” she murmurs, thoughtful. “I think so…”

Thancred interrupts. “I thought that imbalance was what enabled Hydaelyn’s control. Why do you want to increase it?”

Emet-Selch heaves a long-suffering sigh, continuing to address Ryne. “Look at me for a moment, if you will. You may recall when we first returned we were both about equally balanced. How do we look now?”

Ryne narrows her eyes. “You’re…quite a bit darker now. Not anything like you were before, but…”

Emet-Selch nods, uncharacteristically serious. “Yes. My Darkness is going to grow quite a bit faster than our hero’s Light; the eighth fragment helps, but not that much. For now, I fear we’ll need your help to keep ourselves in equilibrium.”

Ryne nods, concern on her face, and reaches her hands out toward you.

“Not too much,” Emet-Selch adds as a glow bridges the gap between you and Ryne. “Aim to build about as much Light as I have Darkness. It doesn’t need to be overly precise.”

Ryne and Emet-Selch watch you closely as she works, and Thancred watches Emet-Selch with undiminished suspicion all the while. For your part, you focus on yourself, trying to feel what Ryne is doing; maybe this is something you could learn to do yourself. But either it’s too subtle or you need actual training; without warning she nods and steps back, letting her hands fall to her sides.

“There,” she says.

“Thank you,” you tell her. “Maybe you can teach me to do that myself.”

She bites her lip, frowning. “I don’t know. Maybe.” Her eyes shift back and forth between the two of you, but whatever is troubling her remains unspoken. She lifts a hand to wave at you before turning to leave, Thancred following in her wake. You glance around to see the Ocular empty aside from the Crystal Exarch, Emet-Selch, and yourself. G’raha looks troubled, but he smiles when he notices your attention, giving you a nod as you turn toward the door.

Emet-Selch follows you out of the Ocular, then hauls you into an embrace the moment the doors close. His lips find yours, hot and needy, stealing your breath. You wrap yourself around him in response, making a sound of complaint when he ends the kiss far too soon.

“I’ll see you in your room this evening,” he promises with a devil’s smile. He kisses you again as he disappears, your arms crashing into one another with nothing between them suddenly.

You wander through your errands in a state of distraction, sorely tempted just to leave them for tomorrow, but unfortunately the world isn’t willing to stop just for you. Finally you head to the Pendants, ascending the sweeping staircase and counting doors to your room, your pace picking up as the idea of finally being alone with Emet-Selch—Hades—energizes you.

It’s weird, walking into the room. The last time you were here, you were basically an invalid, the Light a blade hanging over your neck. So much has changed since then, but the room doesn’t know it; your dirty cup still sits on the table, the remnants of an outfit you were assembling laid out on the dresser. The orchestrion is playing a piece you don’t recognize, soft, slow chords and melody, reminiscent of a harpsichord but richer, deeper, more lingering. You know somehow that Hades chose this music, and go to the balcony doors.

He is sitting there, on the rail, one leg dangling over the drop. Of course, he has nothing to fear from a fall, not when he can teleport at a thought. He is gazing into the night, up at the half moon, and he doesn’t stir at your approach.

You let your feet scrape on the ground, not wanting to startle him as you come up and put an arm around his back. For a few minutes you both gaze into the darkness in silence.

“Do you think this will really work? That we can take on both Hydaelyn and Zodiark?”

He laughs, bitter. “No. But once your friends realize the sheer impracticality of their plan, they’ll accept the necessity of the Ardor. Then we can actually make progress.” He is silent for a minute. “But yes, if we can mend the star and get some help, I think we can. Especially once Zodiark restores the lost.”

You sigh and lean into him a little. “Is there any chance they won’t all be tempered by Him when He brings them back?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.” You study him, and his shoulders droop a bit. “Probably not. But the souls that survive the Rejoining will probably not react well to Zodiark’s return, which may balance things somewhat.”

“I’m worried about the Calamities,” you confess. “I know you don’t really view us fragmented souls as people, but I do. There are a lot of people on the Source that I care about. Not to mention here. I don’t think I can bring _one_ Calamity down on them, let alone five or six more—and all in my lifetime, too.” You swallow. “Gods, if we do that there won’t even _be_ any life left to sacrifice to Him.”

He half-turns toward you. “I expect your lifespan—along with that of everyone on the Source—to increase as you near wholeness. But I suppose that doesn’t matter to those whose lives are cut short.” He turns, sliding off the rail and drawing you close. “I don’t have an easy answer for you. No doubt your Scion friends will do everything in their power to find a less destructive alternative. Who knows, maybe they’ll find something.”

You look up at him. His eyes are lowered, his expression morose. He obviously doesn’t think it likely. You sigh but refuse to give up hope as well. You cup his chin and angle his face, brushing your lips over his.

“I hope so,” you murmur. “But that’s a worry for tomorrow. As for now, well, I believe you have some darkness for me to negate?”

He straightens up, a smile spreading across his features. “So I do. And it’s high time you began learning to manipulate your aether.”

You follow him inside, closing the balcony doors behind you. He sits on the bed, patting the space beside him. Once you’re settled, he begins to speak.

“The Wardens’ Light manifesting around you was what let our essences mingle and purify before. You have to learn how to do that intentionally for this to work.”

You take a deep breath, nerves shivering like poplar leaves. “How hard is it to learn?”

He gives you an entirely too amused grin. “Our children begin learning this not long after they learn to talk. I’m sure you can manage.” The grin widens. “Just remember, both of our free will rests on this.”

“No pressure,” you grumble, eliciting a chuckle from him. For maybe an hour, he coaxes you through focusing your will and performing exercises to draw out your aether. To your relief he is a patient teacher, breaking everything down into manageable chunks, though he cannot seem to resist teasing you periodically. Even this, though, serves to help you laugh off your frustrations and persevere.

You gasp as you feel it, power—your very soul, it seems—lifting off your skin to waver in the air around you.

“Good,” he says in satisfaction, eyeing you critically. “Keep at it; draw out a bit more.” You do as he asks, and he raises his hand, blackness misting around it as it comes into contact with your light. The opposing aspects writhe against each other, tendrils making forays only to fade or regroup, and all the while Hades watches closely. “As I thought,” he says at length. “They annihilate one another.” He withdraws his hand and gives you a smirk. “Do you think you can do that again, but while in a state of…heightened distraction?”

You release the light, letting it fall back into you. “Maybe,” you say dubiously. “But what if I can’t?”

“No matter,” he says, hands already guiding you down. “Annihilation will keep us ourselves. It will weaken us, but it’s better than the alternative. And you’ll master it, probably sooner than you think. You’ll just have to practice.”

“What a shame,” you joke, heart already tripping. He acknowledges your jest with a brief grin, hands smoothing over your clothing. He tugs at your top, and you raise your arms as he slides it slowly over your head.

Unlike before, he doesn’t use his power to strip you, seeming to enjoy teasing you naked one slow article of clothing at a time. You’re put in mind of his threat/promise to make you writhe for hours, and you wonder if you should remind him that you _do_ need sleep at some point. But he doesn’t draw it out long enough to make you genuinely worried; soon enough he has you naked, though he rebuffs every effort you make to remove his own clothing.

The elaborate clasp of his jacket, perpetually undone, is shockingly cold against your chest as he kisses you, pressing you into the mattress. You can’t help but squirm under him, the discomfort highlighting the pleasure. You run your hands over his shoulders, then slip one under the jacket, planning to tease it off him, but his hand closes around your wrist, thwarting you, and he smirks.

“Mmm, not yet, hero.”

You make a strangled sound of frustrated desire. “Oh, come _on,_ Hades. At least take your gloves off?”

He chuckles, leaning close to your ear and letting his voice fall to a bass murmur. “No.”

You make a needy sound—you refuse to think of it as a whimper—and change your strategy. “Please,” you breathe, staring at him, devouring him with your gaze.

He laughs. “Do you crave the feel of my skin? Very well.” He rolls off you, reclining against the headboard, and raises the hem of his garment. You sit up, watching as he undoes his pants to let his erection spill out. _Gods,_ he’s beautiful, especially with that wicked smile as he gestures to himself. “You may touch the royal person.”

Already moving in on him, you pause, thrown by the reminder. You look up at him in consternation and see laughter dancing in his eyes. Apparently he’s feeling playful now. It’s endearing enough that you indulge him. That and you’re craving a taste of him. You wrap your hand around the base of his cock, watching his face. He’s wearing an expression of boredom, though he inhales deeply when you give him a squeeze. Feeling yourself smile, you bend down and take his head in your mouth.

He can’t hide a sharp inhalation as you suck your lips down tight around him. His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, and you let him coax you down before drawing back up.

“Mmm,” he murmurs. “Another savage paying lip service to Garlemald’s might.”

Unable to laugh, you choke for a second, then roll your gaze up to give him a reproachful look. He grins back down, unrepentant. You roll your eyes and swirl your tongue around his tip, then repeat your earlier motion, sliding a little lower each time, listening for his breath to hitch, for him to gasp.

“Now,” he says, and his damnable voice shows no sign of strain, “try to call the Light again.”

You blink in surprise. Now? Really? Heaving a mental sigh, you begin trying the exercises that seemed to work best before.

“I didn’t tell you to stop sucking, hero.”

His tone brings a blush to your cheeks, and you start bobbing your head again. His fingertips digging against your scalp encourage you to keep moving, but it’s difficult to concentrate on drawing out Light, especially as he begins making soft sounds, groans of pleasure, murmurs of teasing and encouragement. Frustrated, you take him deep, hoping he’ll get distracted and forget about the Light. He hisses, losing himself, thrusting into your mouth with abandon, but before you can savor your victory he pulls you up roughly.

“On your hands and knees,” he snarls, “now.”

Heart racing from his slit-eyed hunger, you comply quickly, craning back to watch him. Apparently his earlier patience has been spent, because he vanishes his clothing with a thought before kneeling behind you. He grabs a handful of your hair, hauling your head back for a kiss as he positions himself, then you moan into his mouth as he drives into you.

He releases your hair, and your head falls forward, lolling as you abandon yourself to pleasure. He slides his hand, the one not gripping your hip, up your body, coming to rest on your throat. He pulls you up again to murmur in your ear.

“Pay attention to what I do.”

You try to focus as darkness lifts off his skin like a cloak, wisping around him. You gasp as it licks your flesh, scorching here, chilling there, stinging and abrading at random and leaving aching numbness in its wake.

“You’re under attack, Warrior,” he murmurs in your ear, his voice low, dangerous. “Will you shield yourself?” He hauls your body up so your back presses fully against him as he moves in you. You cry out at the sudden increase in pain, focusing on the light, on drawing it out to surround you. His teeth nip at your shoulder, only distinguishable from the darkness by their relative gentleness.

Almost you break down and beg him to stop. You trust that he would if you asked, but you don’t want to fail this test. So you hold on a little longer, pushing through the pain to center yourself. You gasp as you finally break through, Light swirling around you, banishing the pain and numbness and leaving calm in its wake.

“Very good,” he purrs, and increases his pace, the hand leaving your neck and stroking slowly down your body. “Draw out a bit more.”

Hungry, wanting, you do as he asks, and he rewards your efforts with a grunted “good” and a continuation of his hand’s progress. He palms you, and a cry breaks free as you buck beneath him. He chuckles, stroking you in time with his thrusts, bringing you to the edge and holding you there.

“Hm, that’s enough, I think.”

What? He better not stop now. You turn to look at him, concerned, and one eyebrow lifts.

“The Light. You can stop now.”

Oh. You hadn’t realized you were still sending it out. You cut off the flow.

“Now,” he growls, “come for me.” He buries his face in your shoulder, shuddering, and hands stroke you all up and down your body. No longer teasing, his ministrations send you soaring to the height of pleasure, and you cry out as ecstasy floods you, leaving you alternately limp and jerking in his grip. He groans, gut deep, as he pulses inside you, the myriad hands all clenching in unison and wrenching a gasp from you. He draws in a shuddering breath, and the hands return to petting you as he withdraws and pulls you down onto the bed, spooning you.

“Good work. I thought that might help you get it. Do remember how you did it so I don’t have to do that again, hmm?”

You lift one arm and give his bicep a half-hearted slug. He chuckles, tightening his arm over you.

“So when do you intend to tell your friends the true nature of our relationship?”

You huff out a laugh. “Is ‘never’ an option?”

“What, ashamed to be associated with me?”

“No!” you assure him hurriedly, then sigh. “They won’t understand, though. It’s going to damage my credibility in their eyes.”

“Not as much as if you don’t tell them, and they find out by other means. Some of them probably suspect the truth already.”

You sigh. He’s right, of course. “But how do I even bring something like that up?”

“If you like, I can initiate a public display of affection in front of them. That should clue them in nicely.”

Your eyes bug at the image this conjures, and for a moment you choke on your words. “No! That will not be necessary.” Turning a sly smile over your shoulder, you add, “Whatever happened to ‘I like to watch,’ anyway?”

He scowls, though amusement makes his eyes dance. “I can’t expect you to do all the work, now, can I?” You laugh, and his face turns hopeful. “Oh, _would_ you?”

“No,” you shoot back, still smiling. “I need your help.” The smile fades as you realize just how true that is. “I need _you._”

“You _need_ sleep,” he overrides you with a “hmph,” and you turn forward again, letting your eyes slide closed, warm in his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay! I needed to get "Dark Wings" up to speed for... reasons. You can expect more regular updates from now on.

You pause at the entrance to the Ocular, heart beating fast. You are a bit later than you meant to be—not your fault; Emet-Selch bears the blame for that—so you expect all your friends are already assembled within. You glance at the Ascian at your side and reach out to take his hand.

He gives you a sideways smirk. “Feeling brave, hero?”

“We’ll go with that,” you say, smiling through fluttering nerves. You step forward, and the doors open.

Predictably, all heads turn to you, eyes going wide as they see you hand-in-hand with Emet-Selch. Thancred frowns, giving you a look that promises a tongue-lashing later. Keeping your smile fixed, you step inside, pulling Emet-Selch along, afraid even to see how he’s responding to Thancred’s hostility. You come to a stop in the middle of the group, before the Crystal Exach. Emet-Selch raises your hand to his lips, brushing a kiss on the back before releasing it and turning to the group.

“I will be leading any of you interested in learning more about aetherology and how we Ascians go about altering and concentrating elemental aether out into the Empty for a lesson and demonstration. You are all invited, though most of you will find the subject matter a bit dry.”

Ryne turns to Thancred, raising a hand to her chest. He nods in response.

“Ryne and I are also traveling into the Empty. She thinks she feels something out there, and we’re going to check it out. We would, of course, welcome anyone who isn’t interested in Emet-Selch’s lesson.”

“I may tag along with you,” Alisae says. “Who knows what you might encounter out there?”

“Nothing at all, most likely. It is quite inhospitable, by all reports. Still, we’d be glad to have your company.”

You glance at Emet-Selch, privately glad that you won’t have to deal with the fire-and-matches combo of him and Thancred together. To your surprise he’s looking intently at Ryne, expression curious and almost… perturbed? He shakes it off a second later.

“Well, do keep us all informed if you do find anything. Hard to believe anything could survive the Flood… but if something did, it would be of particular interest to our mission.”

Thancred makes no response, but Ryne gives him a none-too-confident nod.

“Will you be joining us, Alphinaud, or do you have other plans?”

“I believe I will join the aetherology lesson. I feel I’m overdue to pursue that area of my education, especially given how critical it will be to our dear friend’s endeavors.” He indicates you with a wave.

“Urianger and I, being the ones who requested the lessons, will accompany Emet-Selch.” Y’shtola turns to the Crystal Exarch.

“I will remain here, in case coordination is needed or any issues crop up in your absence.” He turns to you. “My friend, it pains me to ask this of you, but there has been an… issue of sorts with the Crystal Tower. If you wouldn’t mind giving the matter your attention when you can spare the time, I would be grateful. The Crystarium Guard can tell you more, if you are willing.”

You nod. To be honest, as curious as you may be about aetherology, you doubt you’d get much out of Emet-Selch’s lecture. And with Thancred otherwise occupied, you dare to hope Emet-Selch will be safe—if not entirely at his ease—with your comrades.

With that decided, the two groups set out from the Ocular. You slow as one of the Crystarium Guard waves to you. You glance at Emet-Selch.

“You’ll be fine on your own, won’t you?”

He makes a moue. “I’m not worried about your friends killing me, if that’s what you’re suggesting. But that’s not really why I wanted you to come along.”

You wave a helpless hand toward the guard—Bethana, if memory serves—and he rolls his eyes.

“Must you see to everything yourself?” You give him a look of exasperation, and he sighs. “Fine, go do your hero thing. I’m sure we’ll manage without you somehow.”

You smile, catching his hand and tugging him closer. You give him a quick peck on the cheek before releasing him. “Good luck. And be careful.” He gives you a tender smile in response, quickly hidden with a scowl.

“Alphinaud,” you say, and the young Elezen looks up from his attempts to studiously look elsewhere. “Will you do me a favor? Will you try and keep the peace between Emet-Selch and the rest? Since I can’t be there.” He nods hesitantly, troubled. “He is important to me,” you stress. “And he really does care. He just doesn’t like to let on.” You see Emet-Selch’s head turn, catch the tail end of the scowl he directs at you. You grin back, unrepentant.

“I will do my best,” Alphinaud promises, and you give him a grateful smile.

“Thanks.”

With a lazy wave, Emet-Selch strolls off, the rest following behind him. You turn back to the guard.

“I hear there’s an issue with the Crystal Tower. What can you tell me about it?”

* * *

You gasp as the transporter sends you drifting down into a sea of bright, pale green. The fragmented walkway floats in a roiling sea of power, humming with oppressive intensity around you. It makes it difficult to focus on the odd creatures and machines you fight past, but when you reach the chamber at the power source’s heart—for there’s nothing else that sea of mad potential could be—you begin to understand.

It’s Alexander—more or less, though decked in Ironworks colors. Was it built, you wonder, or summoned into being by people desperate to avert the Eighth Calamity? Or could it be some hybrid of the two? It doesn’t matter in the end; you understand better now how the Crystal Tower traveled through time at least, and if it is a primal, you can’t risk it causing any further problems.

You fight to keep your focus, not letting yourself dwell on the portals to your friends around the room’s perimeter. According to G’raha, you can return to the Source as necessary now, and everyone there should be fine. Even if, in this tower’s timeline, they’ve been dead for untold years…

Finally the powerful automaton shuts down, the portals going dark and silent. You spend a meditative moment in regret over the destruction of something that saved the world from calamity, once upon a time. Then you gather up the odd tomestones you found and make your way out.

You find the Crystarium guards in a nervous clump near the entrance. “It should be safe now,” you tell them, and they breathe a collective sigh at the good news. You hold up one of the tomestones you found. “Ever seen anything like this before?”

They haven’t, but one of the guards says, “I’ve heard Eulmore is trying to set up some kind of economy. If anyone is interested in that sort of thing, they’ll be there.” You thank him for the advice and make your way to Eulmore.

You find the burgeoning marketplace without trouble and peruse the new gear and knickknacks. On your way out of the city, you’re surprised to see one of the Ondo on its outskirts. He seems to recognize you, waving you over.

“Oh, land-dweller!” Relief floods his voice. “You were one of the ancients’ messengers, yes? How fortunate I have found you!”

You confirm this, exhorting him to slow down, and he explains that some great, awful beast began plaguing them after you entered the city. He begs you to see if they have somehow angered the ancients. You promise in return to do what you can, already thinking how to proceed. The administrative office, most likely. They will know which way to point you at the least.

Walking once again through the streets of Amaurot fills you with bittersweet remembrance, the despair of your first visit drowning in its placid beauty, the shades’ stately movements an eternal dance. The Administration clerk points you toward Akadaemia Anyder, where you receive permission to enter its halls, but they seem unconcerned by the danger you anticipate within. Praying that it will wait—and in a city with no tomorrow, it probably will—you return to the Crystarium, hoping to get more information from Emet-Selch before delving in.

You find Emet-Selch’s group already in the Ocular. You can hear raised voices before you even open the door, and the argument barely hiccups at your arrival; you are greeted by glances and terse smiles only.

“That is irrelevant,” Y’shtola fires at Emet-Selch. “I’m sorry about your situation, truly I am. But we cannot countenance bringing about a rejoining for one person’s sake. It is not our fault you are tempered, nor is it the fault of any of the innocents who would be killed by the rejoining. To make them pay for your error is unacceptable.”

“You seem to think we know this would happen when we summoned Zodiark. We did not. Nothing even remotely near that scale had been attempted before—we did what tests and experiments we could, of course, but we ran out of time to scale them up as we wanted to.” He seems genuinely angry, his eyes flashing with gold fire as he strides closer to the gathered Scions. “And yet, despite our tempered condition, we never subjected another soul to His influence. The thirteen of us who originally summoned Him are the only ones He ever tempered. By contrast, you ephemerals, once you get a taste of one of your little gods’ power, you do whatever you must to spread it far and wide.”

It's obvious that they aren’t going to reach any kind of resolution with emotions running as high as they are, so you wedge yourself into the conversation before anyone can reply.

“Someone mind filling me in here?”

Seeming grateful for the interruption, Urianger turns to you. “We journeyed unto the Empty with Emet-Selch, there receiving most informative instruction on how the Ascians alter the aetherial arrangement of the land. Alas for our purposes, it seems the process entaileth manipulating the life energies and circumstances of its inhabitants near and at the hour of death, such that the energy thence released beareth the desired aspect unto the land upon dispersal.”

“This is why I created Vauthry,” Emet-Selch interjects. “The comfort of a civilization that wants for nothing breeds stagnation and indolence, and each death then increases the land’s stasis.” His eyes slide off you, dropping down to one side. “Your becoming a Lightwarden would have had the same effect in the end, since despair likewise breeds a lack of action.”

Urianger nods solemnly. “The process requireth either a great deal of time or a great deal of death to reach the level necessary to cause a rejoining.” He shoots Emet-Selch an unreadable look. “It seemeth that mass death is not the preferred method, since the balance required to achieve rejoining lieth precariously close to that which would spark a flood. But the process translateth poorly for our own efforts; he assureth us that it is difficult to get numerous souls to pass on bearing the desired aspect; to do so in a multiplicity of locales with many different aspects approacheth the realm of the impossible.”

You nod, not sure how much you really understood but a bit afraid to ask for further clarification. “So if I’m understanding this correctly, that way won’t work, and even if it did, it would be too slow.”

“Thou understand’st truly,” he confirms. “We must needs discover another method—if such a method existeth.”

“I have my doubts about that,” Emet-Selch adds. “I daresay we Ascians would have stumbled on such a thing by now if it did.”

You shrug. “Well, I have good news, at least. Whatever was going on with the Crystal Tower seems to be sorted out now.”

The Crystal Exarch, silent until now, gives you a smile. “I am grateful, my friend. You are ever dependable.”

You nod and turn to Emet-Selch. “I visited Eulmore after finishing up and ran into one of the Ondo there. He said something came out of Amaurot and has been terrorizing them. I backtracked it to Akadaemia Anyder.”

He frowns, raising a hand to his chin. “Not Archaeotania, surely?” You give him a look, and he affects indignation. “What? I was _thoroughly_ faithful to the approach of the Final Days when recreating the city.”

“Really, you shouldn’t have,” you grouse. “You really could have fudged the details here and there.”

He laughed. “Not for my purposes. Well, I’m sure you’re equal to the challenge, hero.”

“Wait, now you_ want_ me running errands?”

He gives you a lazy smile. “I sunk a lot of power into recreating the city for you. The least you could do is perform a little incidental maintenance as thanks.”

For a moment you just blink at him, openmouthed. Incidental… You shake your head. You know how to get back at him, at least. “We’ll discuss this later,” you promise him, and his lazy smirk turns full smoulder. “But I expect you to give me some idea of what to expect in the Akadaemia.”

He hums thoughtfully. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement, yes.”

The others are staring at you, and you grin back, blushing. “So is there anything else right now? Because I’m feeling tired all of a sudden.”

G’raha covers his mouth in response to your coyness, and Y’shtola fixes you with an exasperated look before speaking.

“I believe that is enough for today. Shall we reconvene tomorrow morning to consider our options?”

You nod, and once all are agreed, everyone files out. You let Emet-Selch lead you out of the Ocular, your heart already racing with anticipation.


	6. Chapter 6

To Emet-Selch’s vocal annoyance, you insist on speaking again with the Crystarium guard before retiring to your quarters. Upon seeing you, they pull you aside to show you a familiar-looking device. Surprised, curious, you activate the device, your eyes going wide as you realize who the voice belongs to. You cannot help but strain to hear a trace of your old friend in his voice, though his words soon demand primacy in your attention.

You register Emet-Selch coming to stand beside you and spare him a glance. He’s thrown off his pouting demeanor, listening in intent stillness to the recording. When it ends, you both stand in mirrored silence until Bethana breaks it to ask if you understood what it meant. Head full of wondering, you wrap up the conversation as quickly as seems polite. As you resume your path to the Pendants, Emet-Selch finally speaks.

“Did I catch the words ‘temporal displacement’ aright?”

You shrug. “That’s what I heard. Seems it has something to do with how the Crystal Tower got here?” You shrug, not sure you want to encourage his interest. There’s enough tension between him and the Scions already; if he starts pestering G’raha in earnest over the Crystal Tower’s inner workings you’re worried it will end badly—for you, if no one else. You need them to at least tolerate each other. “Anyway, that’s all I needed to do. Shall we settle in for the night?”

He nods, still frowning, distracted, and you hook your arm through his elbow, sidling up close to him. Your proximity draws him out of himself, and he gives you a smirk.

“Yes, let’s.” The look he gives you is intent enough you almost think he’ll cheat and teleport you to your room. Almost you hope he will… but you make your hasty way across the common and up the stairs to your rooms.

His arms bar you as the door latches closed, trapping you against it, but you stop him as he leans in, putting one finger over his lips.

“Tell me about this Akadaemia place,” you order him, and he puts on a devastating pout.

“What is there even to tell? It’s a learning and research institute. I don’t doubt many of the exhibits will look familiar to you.” He sighs, seeing your unsatisfied expression, and lets his arms flop down, turning languidly—almost dejectedly—to sit on the bed. You follow him over, and he looks at you with affected ire. “What do you even need to know? I thought overcoming unexpected challenges was your forte.”

You reach down, sliding his jacket off his shoulders, and he helps you, putting his arms back so it falls onto the bed. “Well, you said something about Archaeotania earlier, what’s that?”

“A specimen spawned during the Final Days, captured for study.”

Smiling, you unpin the red sash that crosses from above one shoulder to under the other arm. The silky fabric glides through your hand, and you pause in the process of tossing it to the side, instead carefully setting it within reach. You can suddenly think of a few things you’d like to do with it later.

“Mhmm?” you coax him. His shoulders surge in a shrug under your hands.

“That’s really all I know. I had other concerns at the time, in case you’ve forgotten. It was not under my purview. It was reported to be monstrously powerful. Should keep you busy for an afternoon or so.”

You lean close, letting your breath warm his neck as you try to figure out the clasp of his collar. “Well, you remembered enough to recreate it, right?”

He laughs. “I filled in the blanks as best I remembered, yes. It will be a challenge, even for you. You’d do well to recruit some help before tracking it down.”

The collar pops open in your fingers, and you trail your hands down to his belt, your eyes catching his, finding them burning into you.

“Good to know.” You find the release for his belt but pause with your fingertip resting on it. “And the Akademia itself? Since it seems I should probably start there.”

His jaw bunches. “Hero…” he growls, somehow pleading and threatening at once, and you tilt your head with a smile. He sighs.

“You’ll most likely want to make your way to the Words of Lahabrea, since that’s where it had been contained.”

You hit the release, and the belt springs free, the lapels of his overcoat falling apart, liberated. You help them along, your hands whispering over the fine cloth beneath, the muscles of his trim waist. He inhales deeply and shrugs out of the coat.

He reaches for the white undergarment’s hem, but you snag his wrists, pulling his hands in toward your chest. He gives you a look of aggravation, reaching instead for your top. You permit him to remove it.

“The Words of Lahabrea?” Great. “What should I expect there?”

“Creatures, mostly land-dwellers, a few fliers. As I mentioned, many of them will be familiar to you.”

“And how do I get there?” You gather the hem of the undergarment in your hands, pausing when he doesn’t respond, staring at you.

“Well?” you ask, hefting the cloth in your grasp playfully, and his eyes refocus on yours, smouldering.

“You can start in the Words of Mitron. If Archaeotania has escaped, you need but follow the trail of devastation. Now, if you won’t stop teasing, I shall take matters into my own hands, hero.”

A shiver traces a path down your spine as power, or its potential, swells in the air around him. You lift the undershirt wordlessly, not wanting him to take over just yet, and his irritated scowl morphs into a lazy smirk. He raises his hands to facilitate the garment’s removal, and as you draw it over his head you push forward, knocking him onto his back and straddling his hips.

He gives a surprised “mmph” as your weight settles onto him, and you know you’re grinning like an idiot when you raise the cloth just enough to free his head. To no surprise, the ire is back, but the fire in his eyes gives the lie to it. You twist your hand, trapping his arms more securely as you bend down and kiss him hard. He surges beneath you, trying to sit up or maybe just get closer, but your honed reflexes help you ride the movement out. You bury your free hand in his hair, tugging to tip his head back. He subsides, groaning, and your tongue flicks over his lips, then presses against his teeth.

He opens his mouth for you, and the taste of him makes you bear down on him, crazed. His hips undulate as you ravage his mouth, driving you even more crazy. You grind against him, both hands fisted tight, until spots swim before your vision. You break off, gasping, unable to hide a smile at his mussed, glazed-eyed expression.

Relenting, you relax your grip on his undergarment, freeing his hands and tossing it aside. He smiles up at you, radiant, devilish, and you cup his cheek in one hand. Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask him? You can’t remember, and looking at his bare chest makes you want to bare the rest of him. You let yourself slide off him, slowly, taking the time to rock against the bulge at his crotch as you do.

He gasps as you slide your fingertips under the waistband of the deep red skirt. Impatient, you pull it off, letting it drop so you can grab one boot by toe and heel and pull it off, then the other. You run your hands slowly up the tight leggings, the last thing he’s wearing. You bend down, tasting the skin just above his hip bone before loosening the closure and pulling them down, licking your way after them.

Muscle tightens, making skin ripple and flex in both your path and your wake, and you hear him fall flat onto the bed with a groan. Impatience seizes you again as you work your way down his calf, and you yank the leggings over his feet and begin working your way up the other leg. He reaches for your head as you near his hip, but you step back, smirking, reaching to your own pants, undoing them, letting them slide down your legs. Stepping out of them, you quickly finish stripping the last of your clothing off.

You climb up to straddle him, running your hands up the rippled muscles of his chest, and he turns a teasing smile on you.

“Forgetting something, hero?” When you just stare at him, he runs a gloved fingertip under your chin. Ah, yes, the gloves. He grins as realization dawns on your face.

“Not to worry,” you murmur, “I’ll soon set that to rights.” You slip a finger under the glove’s hem, then another, slowly stroking up to his palm.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, and you rub a few circles over his lightly callused skin before pushing the glove up further. You use your other hand to continue baring his skin, ilm by ilm, letting your fingers twine with his as you slide further along. The glove falls to the side, forgotten, and you bring his hand to your lips, kissing the back, moving over the knuckles one by one.

He shifts under you with a gasp, and you smile against his skin before releasing his hand and reaching for the other. This one you bring directly to your mouth, delicately capturing the bottom of the glove in your teeth, lifting it free, pulling it up, letting your hands explore in the cloth’s wake. You’re grinding on him slowly, senseless as you strip the last scrap of fabric off him. It comes off the last finger with a bounce, and you grin down at him, the glove still caught in your teeth. He stares up, electrum eyes bare slits, chest heaving. He snatches the glove from your mouth and flings it away before cradling the back of your head and pulling you down for a kiss.

You permit it, bracing on his chest as he demands entry to your mouth. You use the opportunity to seize control again, tipping his head back with a hand beneath his chin to leave him helpless and gasping as you ravish his mouth. His hands grope blindly to your knees, down your thighs to cup you. You hiss, the rhythm of your grind faltering at the intimate touch. Groaning, you release his mouth and sit back at his coaxing. He wraps one hand around his cock, neck muscles standing out sharply as he strokes himself. Jealous, you grab his wrist, but he wrenches one eye open, ire glittering out.

“A little faith, hero,” he grits. His hand slides up again, popping off the tip, and you realize the shaft is glistening with some kind of lubricant.

Perfect.

He grins at you, inviting. “Well?” he says, voice rough. You smile back and reach for the sash you’d set aside earlier. You let it run through your fingers until you hold it by the ends, and his eyes widen as he realizes your intent.

“Is this all right?” you ask, suddenly a touch concerned.

His smile returns. “Do with me as you will, hero… though I don’t promise to cooperate if you bore me.”

You smirk. “Oh, not to worry… Hades.” His eyes flare dark and hot as you purr his name, and you feel a twinge of regret as the cloth falls over them, obscuring them from view. You knot it behind his head, capturing his lips with yours as you tug it tight. Your hands ghost down his body, flitting here and there, and he shivers beneath you at the unanticipated touches.

Impatient, almost trembling with the intensity of your hunger, you rise up on your knees. With one hand you stand his dick up and lower yourself onto it. A cry breaks from your lips as he impales you, and his hands seize onto your hips, clinging, guiding, supporting. You sink down and rise up in a gathering rhythm, deeper each time, wringing a noise from him as you take him fully within you.

Core taut, thighs flexing, you push your body’s limit to ride him, finding a steady rhythm that slowly speeds up as need overtakes you. You keep up your random touches, caressing him at the shoulder, the hip, brushing his lips with your fingers and then your own lips. His shudders and groans fuel you, driving you closer to the edge. In a bid to draw the ecstasy out a little longer you start trying to bring out your Light. To your surprise he seems to realize what you’re doing even with the blindfold on, murmuring encouragement and reminders until it surges forth, enveloping you. His Darkness rises to meet it, and you groan as his hand strokes you.

Panting, almost sobbing from the pleasure, you ride him with abandon, barely clinging to sanity until his gasped “enough” lets you release the Light. His hands twist as you do, fingertips pressing  _ just so, _ and you cry his name as he sends you spiraling into ecstasy. Once, twice, three times his hips buck under you, and then his hands clench tight and he barks a curse. Slowly the pleasure seizing your muscles relents, and you slump down, brushing your lips lazily along the corner of his jaw, too wrung out and sated to do more.

His arms rise to encircle you, holding you against his chest. You settle against him, content.

“So are you going to remove this blindfold or not? It’s beginning to grow tedious.”

You open an eye, chuckling. No need to tell him you’d forgotten about it. By way of answer, you slip it over his head. You give him one last languorous kiss for good measure, then rise off him and settle at his side on the bed. He strokes your face gently, and you let your heavy eyelids slide shut.

* * *

You’re donning your gear as quietly as you can when you’re interrupted by Hades stirring.

“Mmm…” He rubs his face and gives you a smouldering look from between his fingers. “Going somewhere, hero?”

“Akadaemia Anyder,” you reply, abandoning your efforts to be silent now that he’s awake.

“So early?” he grumbles. “Why don’t you come back to bed for an hour or so?”

The thought sends you grinding to a momentary stop. “Hades, if I go back to bed I won’t get out again until dark.”

This gets a chuckle out of him. “I fail to see the issue.”

Rolling your eyes, you resume gearing up.

“Please do be careful,” he says, serious now. “As in the recreation of Amaurot’s final days, the things you encounter in the Akadaemia can hurt you.”

You smile at him, touched by his ill-hidden concern. “I’ll be smart about it, don’t worry.” You leave him with a lingering kiss that threatens to draw you back into bed, parting only reluctantly to make your way to Amaurot.

By the time you fight your way through the chaos rampaging through the Akadaemia, one of the hunters you called in for help informs you that they’ve located Archaeotania. It takes a good while and the help of many brave adventurers to fell the creature, and again you affectionately curse Emet-Selch for recreating the powerful monster so faithfully. As the adventurers disperse in a cloud of congratulations and already growing tales, the hunter who’d located the beast approaches you.

“Here,” he says, handing you a horn cut from the beast. “You should have this. Wouldn’t none of us have gotten in on this without you.”

You accept the horn and return to the Crystarium. You find the Scions and Emet-Selch locked in debate in the Ocular. The cycle of idea, argument, and refutation continues until they call it for the day, then it begins again on the next. And the next after that, and after that. Every night you cling to Hades, negating your respective Light and Darkness, reaffirming your commitment to your chosen course of action. Every day you cast about for a solution,  _ any _ solution that both parties can agree on.

When a Crystarium guard stops the two of you on your way to another interminable arguing session, you’re secretly grateful for the diversion. To your surprise, it seems Ryne is back and looking for you. You wait while the guard fetches her.

She exudes an aura of restrained excitement and nervousness. “There you are!”

“Ryne! How have you been? I hope all is well with your expeditions.”

Her hands twine in front of her. “The truth is, I need your help…” You listen with growing amazement as she describes what they think they’ve found, her concern that it might be another Lightwarden. There’s no question in your mind, and judging by the tightness of Emet-Selch’s grip on your hand, he agrees—you need to check this out. You barely take time to have the guard relay a message to the Ocular before you’re headed after Ryne to meet out at the Derrick.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delving now pretty heavily into 5.1 spoilers, mostly for Eden.

Emet-Selch looks out at the Empty for exactly five seconds before declaring he _ might _ join you once you reach your destination, but certainly not before. Undeterred, you ride out with Thancred, Urianger, and Ryne. Conversation lapses to silence, and the blank, dead scenery rolls on for hours.

You rouse from a doze when Thancred stops the skyslipper, and your eyes go wide at the colossal figure looming over the horizon. With trembling fingers you activate Emet-Selch’s gadget, and he appears several seconds later. Thancred pointedly ignores his arrival, folding his arms as he stares at the massive figure in the distance.

“I have to say, it’s a touch larger than I was expecting. And is it… sleeping?”

You glance at Emet-Selch, hoping he knows more. He is frowning, visibly in discomfort but also seeming curious as he likewise stares at the hulking shape.

Ryne shakes her head, catching your attention. “No. It’s waking up.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. Is it a Lightwarden?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Something unclenches in your gut, reassured by her words. You weren’t keen on dealing with another Lightwarden, especially not one strong enough that Ryne sensed it at this distance. “Instead of being filled with Light… it is Light.”

Silence draws out, broken by Urianger.

“The first sin eater…”

Emet-Selch stirs at his words, his frown deepening.

“Long have I strived to unravel the mysteries surrounding the Flood of Light. To discover what set that terrible cataclysm in motion. Every thread led to the same conclusion. The same single point.”

“Or single being…” Thancred adds thoughtfully.

“I believe you may be correct,” Emet-Selch says.

Urianger looks at him. “Thou dost not know?”

Emet-Selch shakes his head by way of response. “I was not working on the First at that time. Nor can I ask those who were, banished as they were by this reflection’s Warriors of Light. But by the vast concentration of primordial Light that thing holds—and if it is indeed waking up—then that is the most logical conclusion.”

“I concur. I believe that the entity we see before us is the first sin eater. The instigator of the Flood—the very foe Minfilia vanquished a century ago.”

Thancred’s chin drops. “She gave everything she had… and won.” A pensive moment passes. “...But this abomination could undo her work.”

“Aye, the possibility cannot be denied. Though it is oft said that destruction and creation are but two sides of the same coin. Ryne, knowest thou of what I speak?”

Emet-Selch stirs but doesn’t interrupt. Ryne replies, “The power to shape reality, to bend the laws of nature. For what was once shattered may be forged anew.”

“Well.” To your surprise, Emet-Selch is smiling broadly. “It seems you have things well sorted here. And I’ve suffered as much Light as I can stand. But do call on me again if more information presents itself, or you need help with your _ creation.” _ He disappears, and Thancred rolls his eyes.

“That’s all well and good, but don’t you think we should give it a name first?”

“...Eden.”

Course of action decided, you help set up the tents Thancred brought and prepare to ride the aetherial currents… and investigate Eden.

* * *

Breathing hard, you return your weapon to its place as Eden’s avatar evaporates in a puff of Light aether. You watch protectively as Ryne attempts to seize control of Eden. Your fists clench in helpless concern as the young girl struggles, though pride floods your heart at her determination to succeed. Your heart then leaps into your throat as Urianger is thrown backward, but Ryne stands strong, defiant, even as the monstrous thing shakes and begins to rise from the ground.

Finally Ryne emerges victorious, but an alarm sounds, and through her new connection Ryne reports an enemy approaching from above as well as numerous others inside, too—trying to reach the core. Urianger and Thancred go to stop the intruders, leaving you to deal with the airborne attacker. At your word, Ryne has Eden construct a platform for you to stand on and sends you to it.

You flinch as an impact rocks the newly-created platform beneath your feet, peering gingerly over your arms to see what manner of enemy you face. You stare at the strange void-creature assailing Eden. Peering closer, you squint… is that a _ person _ in its grasp? Taking your weapon in hand, you prepare for another fight.

* * *

You are at least somewhat relieved to see that the armored figure remains when the Void creature’s body disintegrates into aether. Before you can check on it, though, the others rush to join you, finally having dealt with the intruders on the inside. Fortunately, they seem no worse for the wear; they take a moment to check you over, as well.

“No… I won’t let you…”

The unfamiliar voice is feminine, as is the armor, you note, turning to see the figure struggle to its—her—feet.

“Damn the Light… Damn you all!”

You ready your weapon, preparing for another fight, but Ryne steps forward, stopping you with an outstretched arm.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

The question sends the armored figure into convulsions; she cries out in confusion, clutching at her head and collapsing a moment later. No one seems to have any better idea than you who she is or what she wants; Thancred volunteers to take her to the tents and keep an eye on her until she comes to. He departs, and you follow Ryne and Urianger back to the core.

“Hmm…” Ryne muses. “I couldn’t sense any light at all in that girl or her servants. And I can’t really explain how, but she reminded me of Emet-Selch.”

His name reminds you that you should probably give him an update; you pull the gadget he gave you from your inventory, toying with it as Ryne goes on.

“Though I think it unlikely that she is an Ascian, she may yet be thrall to Zodiark. Maybe we’ll be able to find out more once she’s woken up. In the meantime, I’ll try to improve my control over Eden. It seems to be listening more than before, instead of screaming at me like it was in the beginning. And that’s not all! I’ve made an exciting discovery!”

You want to press her for more information, but it would be better not to make her go over it twice. You summon Emet-Selch, who appears beside you a moment later. He immediately flinches, raising an arm.

“I don’t suppose you could call for me in a locale _ not entirely surrounded by a vast reservoir of Light, _ now, could you?”

Wincing, you reach to him. “I’m sorry. But you should probably see this.”

With a long-suffering expression directed at you, he begins looking around the core, eyes narrowing in interest. “Now, this has potential…”

At your gesture, Ryne goes on to explain what she’s discovered about Eden, its ability to alter aetherial balances, and how she hopes she can restore the Empty with it. She falters at the how of it, but Urianger, reminding her the burden is not hers to bear alone, offers his knowledge on the subject.

With Emet-Selch’s input, a plan begins to take form—to use Eden’s aether and summon a primal at a location where that element rests in dominance. Then you have but to kill the primal so its aether will disperse to the land as desired. You worry a bit that Emet-Selch will not appreciate the undoing of the Flood of Light’s work, but he seems interested. All your concerns evaporate when he takes Ryne aside to explain in excruciating detail the finer points of creation as applied to what she will be doing.

“This is no pretty illusion spell you’ll be weaving,” he cautions her. “Any stray thought could send your work awry. Clear your mind before each attempt. And follow my calculations precisely! The wrong amount of aether will be less than useless; it could actively undermine our goal.”

You decide to intercede; poor Ryne is looking a touch overwhelmed.

“It’ll probably work better to explain as you go along,” you murmur, taking his hand. He turns to you, acknowledging your suggestion with a wry smile.

“A fair point.” He turns back to Ryne. “But if you have any questions, any uncertainty, you must ask. Much is at stake. The possibility of reclaiming the Empty…” He shakes his head. “Dare I hope…?”

“We have perhaps been remiss in excluding Thancred from our planning,” Urianger points out. “Let us inform him of the plan we have devised and see if he has aught to add to it.”

It seems all are in agreement; you ride the aetherial currents to the small camp. Emet-Selch, opting to travel by his own means, arrives a few seconds later.

“We believe we have struck—”

“What is that?” Emet-Selch’s voice cuts through Urianger’s explanation, stark fury arresting you, chilling you as you turn to him. His face is carved in planes of cold anger as he stares past Thancred. He looks around the group, his gaze coming to you last. “What have you _ done?” _

You stare back in confused shock. To the side Thancred tenses.

“Dost thou mean to refer to the woman resting in the tents there?” Urianger’s calm, controlled tones cut through the tension. “She attempted to attack Eden as Ryne sought to control it. Once defeated, though, she did display an unusual degree of confusion and disorientation before collapsing. We brought her here, in the hopes that she might recover enough to explain why she sought to do such a thing.”

His fury subsiding, Emet-Selch turns toward Urianger. “She will not.” His voice is still sharp with displeasure. “Not inundated by Light like this. Are you _ trying _ to kill her?” As you and the others react in surprise, he shakes his head, despairing. “It is as anathema to her as it is to me. Give her to me. I’ll take care of her. Never fear; I will inform you when she recovers enough to speak to you.”

Thancred frowns. “Forgive me if I still don’t entirely trust you.”

“Then will _ you _ take her back to civilization? Risk leaving your friends stranded in this toxic wasteland, or force them to delay their plans to restore the Empty? When will you next be able to bring a group out here?”

Thancred, lacking adequate answer to any of the questions Emet-Selch poses, steps reluctantly aside, watching the Ascian with arms crossed.

Emet-Selch pauses in the doorflap of the tent. “Water first, as we discussed, then earth.” His eyes move from Urianger to Ryne. “You remember what I told you? Maintain focus and you’ll do fine.” He snaps his fingers, then disappears in a gout of darkness.

Still reeling from surprise, you look around at your comrades. Thancred looks annoyed, and Ryne disquieted. Urianger turns again to Thancred.

“As I began to explain before, we have devised a viable plan to restore the Empty…”

* * *

Your satisfaction at defeating both Leviathan and Titan is tarnished when Ryne seems to suffer some kind of collapse—nothing so severe as the armored woman experienced, but worrisome nonetheless. Urianger persuades her to take her rest, and together you all head back. You speak with Ryne one last time, and she introduces you to the others who have agreed to help in your venture—a Mord named Ghul Gul and a hume named Lewrey. Then you return to the Crystarium and try to track Emet-Selch down.

Unfortunately it seems no one has seen him; finally you check your room at the Pendants. Still no snarky Ascian. In desperation you activate the gadget he gave you. You start as the door opens without warning and a familiar gold-cuffed glove beckons you. Heart still tripping, you join him in the hallway.

“I secured the room next to yours for…” You give him a sidelong look as he stops himself. “Your guest,” he finally finishes.

You wait until you’re in the room, no longer in the hallway, to reply. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

He sighs. “I don’t want to speculate too much. Hopefully she’ll awaken soon, and guesswork won’t be necessary.” You follow his wave to see a woman laid out on the bed. Out of the armor she doesn’t look threatening at all; in fact, she looks young, probably close to Ryne’s age.

“How long until she comes around, do you think?”

He spreads his hands. “An hour? A week? I simply couldn’t say. There’s something odd about her aether, plus you administered quite the beating to her. That was you, no?”

“Yes,” you admit. “Well, more to the voidwalker carrying her.” You explain the odd way they’d behaved during the fight, almost more like one creature than two, and give him a thorough account of her behavior afterwards.

He stands in silence after you finish, pensive. “I fear we will just have to wait to see. I will monitor her. When her condition changes, I’ll inform you right away. Beyond that, there’s not much more we can do for her.”

Together you return to your room, leaving her to her rest. Weary from the long fight, you begin stripping down for sleep.

“I hope those primals didn’t give you too much trouble.”

You laugh. “If I didn’t know you worry about me I’d be offended. Primals are my bread and butter.”

He gives you a smirk. “I did the calculations, remember. The amount of aether needed to restore the Empty should give even _ you _ a spot of trouble.”

“I would be lying if I claimed it was routine. But, as usual, I won through.” You fall serious as you remember the end goal. “Do you believe this will work? Restoring the Empty? It didn’t do as much as I’d thought it would.”

He waves a hand. “It won’t look like much for a while. But remember, everything is connected.” He pauses, then comes close, drawing you into his arms. “This may be exactly what we need. If this Eden works like I hope it will, we can match this shard’s aether to the Source’s and see if there is a way to bring about a Rejoining without a calamity.”

Hope grows within you, blossoming into a tender smile, and you lean close to capture his lips.

“We’ll get there. One step at a time.”


End file.
